


As All Rivers Flow to the Sea

by beng



Series: Arrangements From Afterlife [4]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fourth Age, Immortality, Ithilien, Nature, Poetry, Suicide, What lies beyond the horizon, passing of time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-05
Updated: 2014-03-05
Packaged: 2018-01-14 15:47:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1272241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beng/pseuds/beng
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"The time of the elves has passed, and it has turned against me. With every year I feel it running through my fingers like water through a sieve, and it’s running faster and faster. The world is becoming a dream, seasons passing in a glimpse of an eye, unreal, crazy, absurd." </i>
</p><p>It's 120 FA, and Tauriel can't take it any more.</p><p>A sort of mostly spoiler-free epilogue to the Kíli/Tauriel storyline of Dragonsolver, but should be readable also as a stand-alone. I'll add the explanations where needed — see the chapter notes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. I came up with an image of a short-haired, tattooed Tauriel that I couldn't get out of my head, so I wrote an epilogue to a story that doesn't even have a proper beginning yet. -_-  
> I hope it's not really a spoiler to say that Dragonsolver will end around BOFA, that nobody dies and that Kíli and Tauriel end up together and live a quite happy life until he eventually dies. All 'past' events referenced here actually take place between the stories, so no spoilers there either.  
> Anyway, this is finished in 4 shortish chapters. I hope you'll enjoy!

 

 _Through icy depths of darkness_  
_Rays of light are reaching like hands_  
_As two stars try in vain_  
_To bridge the gaping distance._  
_From the land it looks to the people_  
_That both are shining side by side,_  
_But the paths of the stars can cross_  
_Only upon their fall._

~~~

The evening had set in, and the birds had returned to their nests, silently waiting for the night. A milky fog was gathering on the river, shrouding from view the banks of Ithilien. In a couple of hours the new moon would rise above the dark firs, and the sky would light up with a million white stars, not outshined by the moon and not hidden by foliage.

Tauriel pulled her paddle into the boat and stretched, taking pleasure from the simple action.

The day had been just right — not too hot and not too cold for the late spring, and she had made good progress down the Anduin, even if she was in no particular hurry. She had a destination in mind, but it didn't matter if she reached it a day sooner or later. The waybread from Eryn Lasgalen, former Mirkwood, was still good, and the last year's honey delicious. Tauriel sucked her fingers clean and then reached for her delicate white pipe, a pouch of Erebor’s finest and the simple tinderbox hanging from her belt.

After a single, well-practiced strike a thin stream of smoke joined the silvery mist, the warm smell of pipeweed hanging over the river. Freely drifting in the stream, Tauriel stretched out her long legs, crossed her ankles and leaned back on her sack to enjoy the evening.

Eight hundred and twenty-seven such springs she had seen, eight hundred and twenty-seven summers, autumns and winters. The years had become a whirlwind, all seasons bleeding into a crazy kaleidoscope of colour and then fading all to grey.

Tauriel drew a deep breath and held the smoke in her lungs. It was a habit she had picked up from her husband. For a short moment it would slow the world down to a standstill, and she would be at peace. However, even smoking was losing its effect. More and more often the elf felt that she was the only immovable rock in a torrent of time, with the world changing and turning and pulling her apart. And she simply stood there as the world passed her by, helpless in her immortality and lost in her memories of much slower and longer days in the sun.

~~~

_She felt empty as she stood in the underground chamber, a burning torch in her hand. She was the last mourner left, and she couldn’t make her feet move, couldn’t leave him in the chilling darkness. It was what he would have wanted, she told herself. He was returned to the stone, buried with little pomp but honest tears, in the closest approximation to the dwarf customs that the rangers of Rhudaur knew of and could manage in the middle of winter._

_She had known this day would come, they both had. It didn’t make the loss any less bitter._

_She couldn’t move. She couldn’t leave him there, and face the world alone again. She couldn’t bear the thought of countless more winters without his warmth, of countless springs without his song. But they had known, and they had still wanted this life together. They had just held each other more tightly, loved each other more fiercely and refused to be parted even for a day._

_And now they were parted forever. He wasn’t waiting for her in the Undying Lands, and she would never meet him in the Halls of Mandos. Like two stars, they would be forever reaching for each other over the gaping darkness of the night, never to meet again until the sky comes falling down._

_From this point onwards, her life would be as empty as her death, but, to honour his reckless courage and his unrepentant, unwavering love, she would rather go down in a fight, not waste away in useless sadness. She was leaving her heart and soul in this chamber, but her body was still a deadly weapon set on guarding the innocence of life. She wasn’t done yet._

_Brushing away her tears, she set the torch in a wall sconce and pulled out her knee-length hair where it was trapped beneath her winter coat and scarf. She raked her fingers through it and started braiding. Then, fixing the end with her silver hair clasp, she pulled out her knife._

_She cut the braid at the nape of her neck and carefully laid it over her husband’s tomb._

_She couldn’t cut her beard, but she was Tauriel Ulvâmamabel, a dwarf’s wife._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem at the beginning is by Vizma Belševica, the translation is by me.
> 
> 120 FA means that BOFA was ~200 years ago. Kili died 60 years ago. Lorien is deserted, and Elrond has passed into the West. Rivendell is ruled by his sons Elladan and Elrohir. Thranduil is still the king of the Woodland Realm, and Legolas is traveling with Gimli somewhere in the South (Rohan/Gondor/White Mountains/Ithilien). In 120 FA Aragorn is going to die, followed by Arwen the next year. Then Legolas will build a ship in Ithilien and sail with Gimli down the Anduin and over the sea...


	2. Chapter 2

Next morning, having left her boat and things hidden in the reeds, Tauriel walked in the forest. She stepped lightly, avoiding the fragile flowers, the thin leaves of timid new growth. The dark, dry bark of the ancient trees scratched her hand as she caressed it in passing, and she envied the forest.

The land of Ithilien would recover from the Shadow, and it would bloom again. There would always be a new life for the trees. That was how it was meant to be, how Ilúvatar had intended it in the music of the Ainur and how Yavanna had implemented it.

Her own path led inexorably towards the sea, and there were few things in Middle-earth that Tauriel Faenôlves feared more.

She walked soundlessly, her bow with a nocked arrow held loosely in her hands. She didn’t fear any orcs or wargs, or Easterlings — she knew that Ithilien was in the good hands of an old friend, who ensured the revival of its forests and the safety of its paths. She longed to see Legolas, and at the same time she just couldn’t. Almost two hundred years had passed since she last saw him at the Battle of Five Armies, and there was no way Tauriel could tell him about all that she’d been through — it would take her months and months. Even if she had the time, she couldn’t explain her heart, and neither was she willing to explain her appearance: her barely shoulder-length hair, her scars, her pipe, her dwarven belt, her single gold earring. Tauriel didn’t want her friend to know she was still alive and then tell him that she was going to go away again.

Right now she wanted to hunt. It grounded her when the heavy, calm flow of the river became too much. She inhaled the scent of the moss and the sun-warmed bark, listened to the thrushes fussing in the undergrowth as they searched and even fought for twigs and down for their nests. The branches were swaying in the wind, playing with bright spots of sun, the fresh green of leaves and the darkness of the firs.

Tauriel crouched as she sighted a magnificent wood grouse sitting in the heather. She pulled back the bowstring and concentrated, patient, sharp and deadly. Bending her knee to the ground and leaning around the fir, she grounded herself and aimed.

Suddenly she thought she felt a breath on her cheek, a warm, solid presence behind her. She knew it was a phantom sensation, but her breath hitched, and she missed her aim.

Tauriel was losing her grasp on the world.

~~~

_The elf passed her pale hand over the granite tomb of King Fíli. Rich in geometric carvings, inlaid with semi-precious stones and silver, how much more elaborate it was than the simple resting place they had erected for his brother! Of course, the king had died of old age in his own bed and in his own kingdom, not mauled to death by a warg in the Weather Hills and then brought all the way to the Barrow Downs to give him at least a semblance of a proper burial._

_Tauriel’s companion, a slender young woman with wild brown hair that reached her waist, trailed her hand over the stone, following Tauriel’s path._

_“I wonder if perhaps I should have brought you here sooner, so you could have met your uncle,” Tauriel said quietly._

_“Then I would have learned much less of the healing arts of Rivendell,” the lass responded. “Do not doubt yourself, mother. You have done right by me.”_

_Tauriel swallowed as she stopped at the next tomb, Thorin Oakenshield’s. “I sometimes wonder where you get that calm, calculating sensibility from,” she murmured. “Neither me, nor your father could ever really plan ahead, like you do, and you’re barely of age.”_

_The lass grinned, which completely destroyed her mask of serenity and brought out a spark of mischief in her dark brown eyes._

_“One day you’ll have to make up your mind, mother, whether you’re considering me an elf or a dwarf. I have a naming ceremony in three days! I am of age!”_

_“In Rivendell or Mirkwood you would have had to wait another forty years or so,” Tauriel noted._

_“That’s one of the reasons I’m so glad you brought me here, nana! And it’s Eryn Lasgalen now.”_

_“It’s been Mirkwood far longer than it’s been Eryn Lasgalen, so let me keep my name, will you?”_

_“Why can’t you just start presenting yourself as Tauriel of Eryn Lasgalen?”_

_“Salabel, dear, you can’t just change a person’s name.”_

_“Why not? They’re changing mine.”_

_Tauriel almost rolled her eyes. That girl was_ so _like her father. Tauriel sometimes wanted to cuff her on the head, and then she wanted to gather her in her arms and never ever let her go._

 _“They’re giving you an official_ translation _of your name,” Tauriel tried to explain. “There’s a difference. You will still be Salabel Faerveren, only they will translate it into grammatically correct and hopefully good-sounding Khuzdul and officially enter you into their clan books as a Longbeard.”_

_The young woman scrunched up her face as she walked down the gallery a step behind Tauriel. “I don’t want to be a Longbeard. It’s a stupid name if you don’t have a beard.”_

_“My exact words to your father,” Tauriel said. “Then again, you’re lucky to get named ‘of Longbeards’, not just ‘Longbeard’.”_

_“What’s the difference?”_

_“Don’t get married to a Broadbeam.”_

_Salabel bent over laughing, and Tauriel had to stop and wait till the fit passed, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth._

_“Alright, mother, so how did you solve that little problem?” she asked, wiping away her tears and falling into step behind Tauriel again. “Are there any occasions where you have to formally present yourself as Tauriel Longbeard?”_

_The elf smiled smuggly._

_“Valar, no. Your father was quite cunning when he applied himself, and I made sure he did. And since I didn’t have any clans-name to begin with, he came up with one. And then he just added that I’m his wife, and that was that.”_

_“Wait, I think I’ve never heard the full version, nana.”_

_“Alright. Now that you know some Khuzdul, why don’t you read it yourself.”_

_“Read?”_

_“Mhm,” Tauriel murmured as she stopped at the tomb of King Glóin and started to remove the wide copper bracelets she had taken to wearing instead of the leather arm bracers. She put the bracelets on the tomb and started to roll up her sleeves. It really was unbelievable what Salabel got her to do. And in the tomb gallery of Erebor no less! She hoped that nobody heard or saw them._

_“Look,” she said, showing her daughter her pale arms. “The sign in the middle of both forearms is your father’s seal, which I think you should be able to draw with eyes closed by now. And this,” she pointed to the central ribbon of dark blue runic script originating from the seal and travelling up the inside of her arm, parallel to several other such ribbons of elaborate, accurate runes. “This is my name. And I can’t change it. I can only get somebody to add new lines.”_

_“Why would you mark your skin like that?” the girl asked, bent over her mother’s arms in curiosity. She had, of course, seen the markings before, but until they had moved to Erebor and somebody had finally started to teach her the secret language of her father’s people, they had been just a mysterious scrawl, coupled with Tauriel’s vague explanations. In truth, even if Tauriel didn’t really speak Khuzdul, she vividly remembered the exact pronunciation of each accurate, dark blue rune on her skin, the exact occasion she had asked her husband to draw it, and the exact meaning of each of the runic ribbons that went up her arms, her legs, that criss-crossed her back and chest._

_Tauriel shrugged. “It was for protection. Fear. Love.”_

_Salabel frowned looking up at her._

_“We’ll talk about it in a moment, sellig, that’s why I brought you down here. Now read.”_

_Her daughter took her wrists and turned Tauriel towards better light._

_“Tauriel Ulvâm-amabel Ugradzum… Ugarad-zurm-thahor. That’s a weird word… Yâsith Kíli Sigin-tarâg ra… ra — never managed to get those guttural stops right — ra’zabadinh Zesululabad. Quite a name, nana! So what’s that jawbreaker in the middle?”_

_Tauriel smirked. “That’s ‘Mirkwood’, my dear.”_

_“If that’s ‘Mirkwood’, I don’t even want to know how long the new name is … Alright, so that’s Tauriel… Whitest-Dream? Is that how they translated Faenôlves?”_

_“No, Faenôlves is how I translated Ulvâmamabel. Try again.”_

_“It’s… I know this. It’s a compound adjective-noun superlative. ‘The whitest… dream of all dreams’. Ooh. Ada gave you this name?”_

_Tauriel nodded, feeling a tightness growing in her throat.  She rarely told her daughter about this side of her father. It was easier to recount his jokes and adventures, and all the times they were saved by his accurate aim, quick thinking and silver tongue. And then there was this: a promise to a mother carved in stone, a memory of a fire-moon, a reckless leap for a dream. And he had managed to condense it all in her name, and then, when she had begged him long enough, he had written it on her skin._

_“So… Tauriel, the whitest dream of all dreams of Mirkwood, wife to Kíli of the Longbeards and high-lady of the Lonely Mountain. That is quite a name.”_

_Again, Tauriel could only nod._

_“Come,” she said, rolling down the sleeves of her simple grey dress and grabbing her bracelets. “There’s something I want to show you.”_


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief mention of Hawke from Dragon Age (and Dragonsolver): I put some brief explanation at the end.

After her failure in the forest, Tauriel briskly walked back to the riverbank and shoved her boat back into the water. She leapt inside and pushed away from the bank with all her might. Once she was back in the middle of the stream she dropped the oar in the bottom of the boat and collapsed behind the rowing bench, clutching her head and drawing ragged breaths.

She couldn’t take this anymore.

Sixty years, and her husband was dead, his nephews and nieces showing the first grey hairs, her daughter — a woman grown. Sixty years! When had the world become such a pit of quicksand, where was the time disappearing? However did she live the first six hundred years of her life before she met Kíli? How did Lord Elrond live more than six _thousand_ years?

Tauriel broke down in desperate sobs.

She felt abandoned, cheated by her god. Why had he permitted such impossible love, and then built such impossible walls? Why was she stranded in Middle-earth, forever bound to its fate, while her love, her inspiration, her support and strength were torn from her and taken to another world? How could such connection feel so right, and bring so much joy, and bring _Salabel_ into this world, and then just slap her in the face like that?

Tauriel cried like she hadn’t cried since Kíli drew his last breath, bloody foam on his mouth from the hopelessly punctured lungs. She hadn’t wanted to live without him, but she had _promised_ she would, and then she found out she was with child, and, oh, how it had hurt!

She had tried her best to go on, she really had. She had raised her daughter in the safety of Rivendell, and together with the remaining elves and the rangers of Rhudaur she had wiped out the wargs of the Weather Hills, the Ettenmoors and Mount Gundabad. The world had become a safer place after the War of the Ring, and it became even more so after Tauriel lost her main motivation for suppressing her recklessness and battle fervour.

She didn’t remember her parents, and she had always been quite alone. Her family had never exceeded the ridiculously small number of two, and she wasn’t even sure she could call it a family, but she didn’t have anything else, and even now there was only her daughter left, and, though Tauriel loved her dearly, she wasn’t _enough_ when the jaws of time were gaping wide beneath her feet, ready to swallow her whole.

She needed Kíli. O Elbereth, how she needed him, with his earthy scent, his expressive voice and his dwarven stone sense. She wanted his rough hands, hot mouth and broad shoulders, his quick smile, cheeky jokes and the constantly surprising displays of that heart-rending, mind-boggling, time-stopping something that made him Kíli.

She yearned for him like the river yearns for the sea, so Tauriel clenched her fists and sat up. She forced herself to take deep breaths until her sickness passed and her head stopped spinning, and the black spots cleared from her vision. She brushed away her tears, took up the oar and plunged it into the water.

~~~

“ _Come, there’s something I want to show you,” Tauriel said, walking down the gallery of kings._

_“But we have been down here before, mother,” her daughter noted, absent-mindedly braiding her wild brown hair as she went._

_“I showed you the tombs of those I knew, and your teachers showed you the rest. But there is one stone coffin that’s empty. Look,” she pointed, bringing the torch to the name plaque at the foot of the tomb. “Read it.”_

_Salabel frowned but bent closer to inspect the short inscription in Westron._

_“‘In eternal memory of Marian Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall and Erebor.’ Who was she, mother?”_

_Tauriel leaned against the empty tomb, crossing her arms over her chest and biting her lip. She had never told anyone about her long winter evenings with Hawke, when they had sat in front of a fire and talked about everything. Was it fair to burden her daughter with this knowledge? Seeing as Salabel was half-elven and most probably immortal, although maybe mortal, because nobody knew how these things worked between elves and dwarves, this could affect her whole life. Wasn’t ignorance better than endless doubt?_

_“Mother?”_

_Tauriel sighed. No — it wasn’t fair, but her daughter deserved to know._

_“Hawke was a glitch in the history of Middle-earth,” she said. “A bump that can still overturn every single thing we know about life and death. Everything anyone has ever told you about afterlife and eternity.”_

_Deciding that this was going to be a long discussion, Salabel hopped onto the tomb and sat down in the cross-legged posture that dwarves for some reason considered the most comfortable. Tauriel sighed again._

_“I met her around the time I met your father,” she said, still leaning with her back against the tomb and gazing straight ahead where the vaulted passage disappeared in the darkness. “Hawke wanted to join the dwarves in retaking Erebor. The thing is, she was no ambitious lass with illusions of grandeur and adventure. Hawke was not from this world, not from Middle-earth. She had… powers and knowledge that were far beyond anything we had ever seen. I wouldn’t say she was more powerful than Gandalf, but her magic was powerful in its own ways.”_

_Salabel frowned. “What do you mean, not from Middle-earth? Where was she from then?”_

_“From Kirkwall,” Tauriel shrugged, waving at the stone plaque. “Which is in the continent of Thedas, where the south is up and the north is down, where the elves are slaves and the men wage cruel wars among themselves. In Thedas, magic is quite wide-spread, as is greed, ambition and deceit.”_

_“But what I wanted to talk to you about is what she said about the afterlife,” Tauriel continued. She felt her daughter’s pressing gaze on her profile but refused to turn and face her._

_“You know the creation myth, the Ainulindalë, and you know the history of Arda, from the awakening of the elves to the War of the Ring. But from what Hawke told me, what she had herself experienced — there might be an alternative to that truth.”_

_“So… What are you saying?” Salabel frowned in confusion._

_“That… That the division between the fates of elves and dwarves might not be so definite. That there… there might be an afterlife… where… where we can be together.”_

_“Nana…” the girl sighed and scooted over. She bent down and wrapped her arms around Tauriel’s rigid, hunched shoulders, buried her nose in the crook of her neck._

_Tauriel shivered._

_“What I’m saying, sellig, is that I’m slowly going mad without your father. The time of the elves has passed, and it has turned against me. With every year I feel it running through my fingers like water through a sieve, and it’s running faster and faster. The world is becoming a dream, seasons passing in a glimpse of an eye, unreal, crazy, absurd. And I am adrift in that dream, and there’s nothing real to hold on to.”_

_Salabel hugged her tighter. “I’m real.”_

_“I don’t want to see you die,” Tauriel whispered, running her fingers through Salabel’s flyaway braid that hung over her shoulder._

_“I know, nana, I know,” her little girl muttered. “I love you so much.”_

_“And I love you, ghivashel.”_

_She felt her beautiful, smart, half-dwarven daughter smile against her neck._

_“Tell me more about this alternative afterlife, nana,” she asked, sitting up and brushing away her tears with the back of her hand. “Although, I bet anything is better than just waiting for the world to end.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The short explanation is that Middle-earth _might_ be part of a Multiverse, and there _might_ be a different afterlife, or reincarnation, or time travel. Or not. Maybe Hawke really was just a glitch.  
>  Also, let me tell you — it was such fun to write a tricultural character that speaks Westron, Sindarin and Khuzdul, comfortably sits on the fence between the elven and dwarf cultures and, being the daughter of two kick-ass fighters, decides to become a bit of a bookworm and a healer :)


	4. Chapter 4

_Save me, sea,_  
_I am drowning!_  
_Drowning in memories,_  
_vain expectations,_  
_and not even a straw of hope_  
_can someone extend to me from the shore._  
_Bitterness of past kisses is pouring into my mouth,_  
_A high-tide of past caresses is swelling over my head._  
_Save me, sea,_  
_you alone are larger than love and vaster than longing._

 ~~~

A storm was coming, and dark clouds were gathering over the sea, swallowing the stars and the moon. There was nobody on the sandy shore as far as the eye could see. The elf stood, facing the water, letting the rising wind thrash her unbraided hair and her grey linen dress. She couldn’t tear her eyes from the dark horizon.

Tauriel had never thought the sea would be so vast, so indefinite. It was larger than anything she had ever seen or imagined. The elf closed her eyes and listened to the wind and the crashing waves. Yes, she could hear it, the deep, ancient music that had created the world.

Tauriel had never been so afraid.

Was there truly no other way for her but the Undying Lands? Was she truly the only elf in creation who would gladly refuse the grace of the Valar, if only she could be with her husband again? Why did her god build such walls that love could still climb over?

What if she climbed even higher, what if she reached above and beyond the death itself?

Tauriel took off her boots and left them lying in the sand, together with her blades and bow. She made a step forward, and then another and another, until the cold water lapped at her naked ankles, soaking the dark blue trim of her skirt. She reached her hand towards the pitch black darkness behind the clouds and the stars.

She waded deeper, till the water reached her knees, and she had to suppress a shiver. Tauriel stood still for a moment, hugging her shoulders and gazing at the stars. Kíli had been right — it was a cold light.

She opened her copper cuffs, a present from the current King Under the Mountain, and dropped them into the water. She didn’t need any reminders of lukewarm politeness, not where she was going. It had been long years since he had last called her Aunt Tauriel.

She did keep her earring, a half of the pair that had somehow found its way from Dís to Fíli’s wife, to her eldest daughter Frír and then to Frír’s half-elven cousin, who was given the heirloom upon her naming. _Amad_ _Salabel Umùrad-hôfuk, ghachinh Zesululabad_ — mother of Salabel Joyspirit, noble lady of Erebor — Tauriel had it inked on her arms before she left.

Now she had everything she needed on her and inside of her: her memories, her deeds and travels, and Kíli’s praise and promises a constant, dark blue reminder of her husband’s skilled hands and loving patience. Tauriel would fight the Valar tooth and nail, she would bite their hands and scratch their eyes if they ever thought to take her runic markings from her. She would rather roam the eternity as she was — with her old battle scars and her ink — than be cleansed to the unblemished perfection of Valinor.

Tauriel spread her arms as she went further, water reaching her belt and soaking her tinder and pipeweed. She waded deeper, as she watched the few stars still blinking between the clouds.

_Dhe melin… Guren níniatha n'i lû n'i a-govenitham…_

Dark waves closed above Tauriel’s head as she plunged towards the freezing depths. Her body was in pain, cold and cramping, but it obeyed when she forced herself to dive deeper. Her lungs hurt, and her vision swam, but she reached, reached for that bottomless darkness beyond the sea until blinding stars swarmed her vision, and she flew up, breaking through the darkness and emerging into the absolute.

She flew, or maybe she fell, and she was nothing and everything, a grain of sand and the mightiest mountain.

The world fell away, and a white light forever filled the air.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poem by Vizma Belševica, translation by me.  
> The illustration was put together by me, but the amazing original art comes from [HERE](http://j-witless.deviantart.com/art/It-s-stronger-than-us-430189622), [here](http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_Ru3rImz6_o/UVbBwqtM4AI/AAAAAAAAAFw/qbEMEDG3SJY/s1600/brunette1.jpg), [here ](http://fc06.deviantart.net/fs71/i/2010/294/2/2/sea_at_night_by_dakkita-d31856z.jpg)and [here](http://31.media.tumblr.com/2e772f840440b2ed022eb4961750e45b/tumblr_mguw6jfpGb1s3reiho1_r1_250.jpg). If you like it, please go over and tell that to the proper author!
> 
> _Dhe melin_ — I love you (Sind.)  
>  _Guren níniatha n'i lû n'i a-govenitham_ — My heart shall weep until I see you again (Sind.)


End file.
